Semaphore
by TiamatV
Summary: Watching one's girlfriend get hit on is not what Flint would call "entertaining." F/LJ; SE/S


So I've gotten a few F/LJ requests, and when I was poking around my hard-drive, I found this silly little 'fic--I'd totally forgotten about it! -laugh- I wish I could say that this idea were mine—it's not. I'm not nearly this clever. It was Author376's situation—I just expanded on it a bit. –laugh-

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**Semaphore**

Summary: Watching one's girlfriend get hit on is not what Flint would call "entertaining." (F/LJ; SE/S)

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There were times when Flint just couldn't decide which group he hated more: officers, or enlisted men.

Not that there was anything wrong with being either of those. He was enlisted, and so were most of the Joes—and he was damned proud of what he'd done with his life. His father had been a Colonel in the Army, and he was damned proud of his father, too.

But watching damned military men hit on his girlfriend was… was…

It wasn't that Flint didn't get the appeal. He probably got it better than anyone—that long, lean, incredibly elegant body, compact with muscle underneath the shapeless olive drab; the brown hair that wisped so fetchingly across her face, the teasing, elfin tilt to her chin. It was in the way personality shone right through the prettiness—the way her expression seemed to flit from Katherine to Viola to Titania in heartbeats—shrew to clever actress to fairy queen.

Flint would never admit it, of course, but he liked seeing the spitfire shrew in her almost more than he liked the playful, teasing bright girl that sometimes sparkled in her eyes. And then there were the times when none of Shakespeare's women would suit her, and he thought she was a fiery female, a Camille, with _la passion de la chevalerie/qu'elle practiqua toute sa vie…/le jour c'etait un roi, la nuite la reine_...

A queen in the nighttime? Oh, yeah. Very much so.

Flint hid his smile behind his hand. Women always made him think of poetry—all women, not just Jaye; he liked women, he wasn't ashamed of that. But he'd known that Allison "Lady Jaye" Hart-Burnett was it for him when none of the Byron or the Shakespeare or the Shelley or the Keats were enough to say what he wanted to say, and the poetry that started running through his head was in _French._

His teachers at Oxford would have either been proud, or _appalled._

And he'd definitely known it was love when he'd accidentally--okay, _sleepily_--called her "His Camille," once… and she hadn't thrown a hissy fit. She hadn't accused him of cheating, or calling her by an old girlfriend's name. She'd blinked at him, given him an assessing look--also sleepy--and said, "Oh… thank you, Dash."

He'd stared. It'd just slipped out, of course, but… "You… know what I mean?"

She'd waved a hand, carelessly, and her Gaelic lilt'd given the ordinary words a very Continental flair. "Flint, seriously. Any woman would be happy to be compared to the legendary queen of Lombardy. I mean, she was amazing."

Then she'd punched him in the arm for making a joke about how they actually _did_ teach things worth learning at Bryn Mawr. His beautiful, tough little scholar.

But part of the problem with having a girlfriend who was worth looking at was that other men she was worth looking at, too. Or, as was the case with that oh-so-_charming_ Air Force colonel who was nosing around Flint's territory, they thought she was worth flirting with.

The man didn't care about her wicked mind, or her wickeder humor, or the way her smile could just about wring a man inside out. All he cared about was those surprisingly plush lips and the lovely face and the—well, if he'd seen the body, then _someone_ was going to get hurt.

Flint couldn't help the frown that drew down the corners of his mouth and tightened his eyes as he glared at the colonel from across the hangar. The ladies probably thought the bastard was handsome enough—though that nose was crooked, he'd probably broken it a couple of times. Yeah, sure, this wasn't the Pit, and it wasn't the Joe stomping grounds. They couldn't do things here that he'd have done in a heartbeat, back at their place in Utah.

That didn't keep him from wanting to walk over there, and dump the man head over heels, right onto the bill of that ridiculous little Air Force cap.

Days like this, Flint thought the officers were the worst, with their smooth manners and crisp uniforms and slow, easy smiles. Whereas at every base they landed on, there was at _least _one of the dickwads who thought it was his right to invite Jaye to the officer's club for a meal or a drink. He was arrogant—he knew that—but at least he'd earned the right to his arrogance!

And he couldn't deck them and call it anything but insubordination, which just plain pissed him off. Whatever had happened to the days when boxing had been a gentleman's sport?

But earlier today, those two enlisteds—the redhead with the freckles who looked all of twelve, and that other one, the tall one with the bad posture—had sauntered right up to Jaye. The redhead had started waggling his eyebrows like caterpillars as he'd started his patter… and Allison had thought it was cute. _Cute!_ Yeah, earlier today, he'd definitely thought enlisteds were the worst. They could get away with stuff that the officers never even tried.

_Never mind. I take it back. I hate men… period._

What Flint didn't understand was how _Scarlett_ managed to escape all the attention. Oh, sure, men looked at her. Hell, _he_ looked at Shana O'Hara when he got the chance—though that wasn't something he ever told Allison. He loved Jaye's long, trim body and her delicate features, but her bunkmate had the curves of a goddess and the face of a fox. Flint wasn't actually _attracted_ to Scarlett—and definitely not after having seen her gleefully slam the heel of her army boot right into the groin of a Viper—but, well, she was very attractive. Even if she hadn't been in the military, she'd have gotten wolf-whistles walking down the street.

But every man in sight—like the four who she was surrounded with right now—picked up, tossed his shoulders back… and _behaved_ themselves around Shana like a well-heeled set of matched Labradors. She had that red hair down around her shoulders—that red hair that would have been brassy on anyone else, but which she wore like it was everyone else's hair that was dull, not her own that was bright—and she was twisting a lock of it around her finger in that thoughtlessly sexy little motion she made when she was thinking. She was wearing a tank top that bared her arms, her powerful shoulders, and pants that left none of the Aphrodite figure to the imagination. Her dog tags were dangling right into her cleavage, glittering like an invitation.

Scarlett looked _good_. Hell, she looked like a pin-up.

But no-one was staring at her breasts. No-one was nuzzling themselves into her personal space, or making muscles for her to admire, or sneaking in those annoying little double-entendres that they thought were _so_ clever. In fact, the four young Air Force lieutenants were all standing around at a very respectful distance, their postures crisp, asking her polite questions about the Intelligence briefing she was holding. They were all acting as if she had no more estrogen in her than General Hawk!

Flint pulled off his beret with a huff, stuck a hand into his hair—and _yanked_.

Whereas _his girlfriend _was wearing shapeless BDUs to hide her lovely figure, her hair was tangled and tousled with the recent mission, she had an adorable smudge of road dust streaked across her delicate cheek… the Air Force Colonel, damn his eyes, was still edging into Jaye's space, his hand propping him up on his fighter plane, and wasn't it just so very _coincidental_ how Jaye was leaning against that particular segment of plane, too?!

He was getting very, very, _very_ tired of this. Especially when the Colonel brought up a hand and "carelessly" brushed a lock of hair off his girlfriend's forehead.

Allison Hart-Burnett could take care of herself. She _could_. Flint knew that whenever he stormed in and started going off like a bottle rocket, it reflected badly on the Joes—especially since the rest of the military still held frat regs sacred. Plus Allison didn't like it when he, as she put it, "walked in, lifted his leg, and sprayed everyone with testosterone." That particular visual image was unattractive enough that he normally tried to think of just the lilt in how she'd said it, every time he felt the need to go and wipe the tarmac with someone's face.

Damn, but she had _such_ a way with words, didn't she?

But he was getting to the point of not caring how unattractive the mental image was: if that flyboy didn't drag that face of his farther away from Lady Jaye's, he was going to end up with a few more crooks in that nose… _if_ Flint let him keep his nose…

Flint took an involuntary step forward, his eyes narrowed.

It was the flash of light that caught his eye and stopped his tracks. He glanced sideways.

It was… oh, it was just Snake-Eyes. The man was doing his thing, as always—sitting cross-legged on a packing crate. And, as always, he was polishing some bit of weaponry—or in this case, sharpening his sword. Flint was too far away to hear the soft rasp of metal on stone, but he could see the long, steady motions with which Snake was drawing the shining blade of his _wakizashi_ along the brick-sized whetstone. It was the flourescents off the metal that had caught his eye. Even as he watched, Snake lifted the blade and tilted it, eyeing the edge thoughtfully, before bringing it back to his knee.

Flint shook his head. Figured. If Snake-Eyes wasn't right at Scarlett's side, he could be trusted to be nearby. In fact… he was sitting…

Hm. Actually… Flint cocked his head, and assessed his teammates' positions. The ninja was sitting where, well… where he could keep an eye on the four lieutenants surrounding his girlfriend.

_Not that __he__ has anything to worry about_, Flint grumbled with just a hint of resentment. _Gorgeous redhead girlfriend, and everyone treats her like the Virgin Mary…_

As he watched, Snake tilted the blade he was sharpening, _just_ so—and Flint saw the beam of reflected light flash right into the face of one of the lieutenants. The one, in fact, who had been leaning closer to get a better look at a diagram Scarlett was holding out.

The man wrenched back quickly enough to sprain something.

Scarlett blinked. "What's wrong, Lieutenant?" she asked, in that husky Georgia lilt.

Flint couldn't hear the soft grinding noise of sword on whetstone—but he could definitely hear the outright _terror_ in the young Air Force lieutenant's voice when he stammered out, "N-nothing, S-Scarlett…"

Flint stared—then blinked, assessingly, at the ninja commando, momentarily distracted from the travesty of a situation that was going on by the side of that F-16.

Or maybe Snake _wasn't_ sitting where he could see the lieutenants… but where the lieutenants could see _him_.

Mute, masked, visored commando wearing enough weaponry to level a small nation. Dressed all in skintight black, with every patch of cloth molding over solid muscle. Meticulously sharpening probably the biggest sword any of the yahoos had ever seen. An undeniable, unarguing walking weapon… who started moving just a _little_ bit every time any of them got within breathing room of this beautiful, exotic girl.

Snake-Eyes, Flint thought, amazed, apparently didn't need a voice to say, "She is _not_ for you, and you will regret trying to make her so."

Otherwise translated: "_MINE_."

The next time one of the lieutenants shuffled just a little closer to Scarlett, Snake-Eyes yanked a bit of oiled cloth from one of his pockets with an actual audible _snap_—and started polishing his newly sharpened sword in meticulous, slow strokes.

The kid went white enough under his coppery tan that Scarlett stopped talking, and reached out a concerned hand to steady him—and when she touched his arm, the lieutenant actually _yelped_ and leapt away.

Flint glanced again at Snake-Eyes—found the ninja looking back at him.

Snake nodded, once, in solemn greeting… then went right back to his sword.

_Oh, you sly dog!_ Flint almost started laughing—in fact, he _did_ start grinning.

Of course, that was about the time he caught the tail edge, a little off to the side, of a deep voice saying, "Well, they _do_ serve a very nice chateaubriand at the officer's club, if you're interested…"

Flint's head whipped around, and before he could stop himself, he was moving.

That was it. That was _it_.

Next week… he was buying a _claymore_.

~fin~

June 29, 2009

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The poem is several lines out of a modern-day translation of "Le Val des Amantes Infidèles," an old French illustrated manuscript. These lines mean, roughly, "[She had] all the passion of the chivalry/ That she practiced throughout her life/ In the day, she was a king, but a queen at night." Isn't that a pretty dichotomy?


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